


Kissing Him

by youreyestheyglow



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff, M/M, based on that one photoset of the dorks kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 15:02:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Marco thinks about Jean.<br/>Based off of <a href="http://miyajimamizy.tumblr.com/post/89074264968/raw-version-of-these-x-i-arranged-them-by-ages">this</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing Him

We were kids, just seven and six, in tuxedos because my mom was getting married and _of course_ Jean was invited and _of course_ he had to match me and _of course_ my mom made me wear a little tux with a tiny bowtie (that I will never admit to loving with a passion that far outstripped the usual adoration of bowties by seven-year-old boys). I wore pink and Jean wore yellow. I wore a vest and he wore a jacket. He grumbled about not matching me exactly.

“Jean,” I said in a tone that my mom would call _adoring_ , “It’s not your fault. I didn’t even know what color I’d be wearing. _Of course_ you didn’t know.”

He flapped his arms like wings. “But I’m not even wearing a vest! I should rip the arms off the jacket.”

I gasped. “You can’t! Your mom would kill you!”

He huffed. “But then I’d match you!”

He looked so frustrated, so annoyed by the sleeves on his jacket. I giggled. “I’m glad we don’t match. Then I wouldn’t be able to tell you apart from me.”

“So what? I _wanna_ be like you,” he grumbled.

“But I want you to be you,” I explained, my tone turning as serious as it possibly could for my age. “So you’d _better_ not be like me, or then you won’t be like _you_.”

He blushed and mumbled, “Well, when you put it like _that_ ,” and I smiled as widely as I could. He got it!

“I do. I do put it like that.” I frowned. “I am putting it like that? I…” Grammar wasn’t my strong point yet, but I forgot about it. It didn’t matter. Because that was when Jean leaned in and planted wet lips on my cheeks, which instantly turned pink enough to match my shirt. I covered my mouth to stop the giggles.

His face was bright red when he pulled away, and that was when I decided that my favorite color wasn’t brown, it was red.

»»»

I was seventeen and he was sixteen and he had his music blasting out of headphones that were around his neck instead of his ears – he was refusing to take off the red beanie that I was sure he’d spent half an hour putting on this morning, placing it _just right_ , because, of course, he couldn’t ruin his hair.

He’d put a lot of work into that hair, and I was happy with the result. Or – he was happy with the result. _I_ was _ecstatic_. I was a huge fan of his dark brown hair, of course – it was Jean, I loved everything about him – but I had to be honest with myself and insist that undercuts made any guy look gorgeous, and with the two-toned undercut that Eren had called _dumb_ , Jean was hotter than the damn Sahara Desert. The only reason I didn’t protest when he covered it up with that beanie was because the beanie made him look perfect too. I had the strange feeling that I could put a potato sack over his head and he’d be gorgeous.

I came up behind him.

He didn’t look up from his sketchbook.

I fought the urge to look, reminded myself that he’d show me if he wanted me to see, and pulled out the chair next to him.

He jumped, blushed my favorite shade of red – of course, that changed day-to-day, and was entirely dependant on what shade of red Jean chose to blush – and snapped his sketchbook shut. “Marco! Did you –”

I waved away his question. “Didn’t look, I promise.”

He grinned and relaxed. “Good. Holy shit am I glad to see you, dude.”

I watched his hand flutter towards me as he tried to decide precisely what boundaries existed in our brand-new relationship. Connie had rolled his eyes when Jean had stammered out “I – I’m dating – Marco and I are –” and brushed it away with a “Dude, you just figured it out?”

I helped him out a little, practically diving into his arms, wrapping my own arms around his thin waist. I couldn’t see his face, but I was absolutely sure he was smiling as his one hand found the small of my back and the other found my shoulder, holding me against him as he kissed my forehead.

I laughed. His lips must have contained laughing gas, because I laughed every time they touched my skin. I couldn’t help it. I was too happy to hold it in.

»»»

It was our second day of college, and I was nineteen and he was eighteen. He found me in the library.

“What, you already have homework?” He hissed at me. I’d say I felt guilty for my thoughts, which had wandered instantly to _glasses_ and _piercings_ and _popped collar_ and _damn-well defined undercut_ , but he’d admitted – blushing like a firetruck – that me wearing glasses was more than he could handle, so I figured it didn’t matter if I thought the same about him.

“Yes, don’t you?” I hissed back. I could feel the simmering anger of those around us as we made noise.

He shook his head, glanced around at the surrounding students, and grabbed my pen out of my hand. He flipped my notebook to a blank page and wrote, _not a thing. Meet you for dinner in an hour?_

He handed my pen back as I nodded.

“I –”

I held the pen up to my lips, a quiet reminder to stay silent, and instead of finishing the sentence he bent down and kissed the tip of my nose as his eyes fluttered shut before straightening, waving, and walking out.

Only an hour to go.

»»»

We were seniors and I was fat.

No, ages didn’t matter. Add three to each of our ages from the last time and you’ll figure it out. I was fat and that mattered because fuck, I’d never been fat before, and even sweatshirts were tight on me.

Jean noticed my annoyance, of course. It was hard not to when I looked like I was going to start fires with my eyes if anyone mentioned how hard I was breathing after one flight of stairs.

He wisely chose to take my hand and chatter over the sound of my breath. It wasn’t his fault that just his _ability_ to speak pissed me off.

I slouched down in his desk chair instead of mine. It’s not like he cared.

He crouched beside me. “If you had laser vision you’d’ve burned a hole through my desk by now.”

“I look like I’m pregnant.”

“So?”

“So, aside from the fact that none of my organs have been displaced, I feel like I’m carrying a baby.”

He slid to his knees so he could pat my stomach. “Hi there, mini-Marco. Can I call you that? Because I love you just as much as I love Marco. And that’s a lot.” He glanced up to me and I felt the anger melting away. He’s an idiot, but fuck if he doesn’t make me feel better just by existing.

I gave up and laughed when he kissed my stomach.

He turned his head to the side and rested his cheek on my little fat-baby. “Marco, the only one who cares about your fat is you. If you want it gone, come to the gym with me tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to use everything and you can go by yourself if you want.”

You stroke his hair. “Thanks, love.”

»»»

It was our first night in our first real apartment. I was twenty-four and he was twenty-three and we’d spent all day moving in, helped by Connie, Sasha, Eren, and – most importantly – Eren’s clean-freak boyfriend Levi. So of course, the house looked spotless, and of course, we were wrecks.

So, of course, the solution was for him to chase me into the shower, ripping off my clothes as we went, because clearly I was _not_ adult enough to remove them myself.

His body was warm against mine and the water was hot on our skin and the soap smelled like roses – Jean gave up on complaining about the scent when I took it upon myself to clean his chest – and then his strong arms were around me and he was bent over me, his voice rasping against my skin between the kisses he dragged down my throat, and I smiled.

He made me so happy I couldn’t keep it in.

»»»

I was twenty-nine and he was twenty-eight and my suit was tight and I didn’t care because his legs around my waist were tighter.

I probably should’ve taken it off, but he’d walked in the door, tossed the groceries on the floor, and pushed me backwards onto one of the stools he liked to carry around so he could draw anywhere in the apartment. I had no idea what had prompted this, but like fuck I was gonna complain – two of his shirt buttons were popped open already, and he _knew_ what that did to me. Bastard.

He tasted like salt and soda and Jean and I loved him for it.

»»»

I was thirty-four and he was thirty-three and neither of us have ever been morning people and that period of our lives was no exception. Plain, loose t-shirts were our pajama of choice, and if anyone thought for even a second that we were changing out of them before breakfast, they were out of their minds.

“Eggs?”

“Mm,” I grunted in a sort of appreciative manner. He’d understand. He’d had years to get used to it. Most of our lives, actually. “Coffee?”

“Hallelujah.”

I had to reach around him to grab the coffee scooper-thing – who had left it there? (The answer was me.) Why not just ask Jean to grab it? That one I blame on my exhausted brain. Why did I grab his hand instead? It was there.

He was the one who laughed this time, when I pressed my lips to his soft fingers. I wondered if the laughing gas had passed from his lips to mine over the years, and if so, if it would return from whence it came given a little more time.

I hoped not. I liked seeing him smile.

»»»

I was forty-two and he was forty-one and getting untangled from the sheets was a problem every morning, more due to our combined laziness than anything. Words weren’t a thing this early in the morning, and they didn’t have to be. I knew what he’d say and he knew what I’d say, and even if we were both willing to say it anyway for the sake of saying it, it was too early for that. It was too early for me to do anything except rest my lips against his shoulder, inhaling a deep breath of the faint roses from last night’s shower.

We both smiled. It was too early for much else.

»»»

I’m fifty-three and he’s fifty-two and for the first time in the forty-eight years since we met he’s asking me what comes to mind when I think about him.

I wonder if it’ll sound shallow, but I say it anyway. “Kissing you.”

I expect him to laugh or ask why, or maybe grumble for an hour about how out of all his great qualities I only think about kissing him, but he doesn’t.

For the first time in forty-eight years, he surprises me.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s about right.”

He leans across the table and kisses the corner of my eye, and when he pulls away, I can see that his smile matches mine.


End file.
